


Family is All We Have

by lostboywriting



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Character is too young to truly consent, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dark Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, Extremely Underage, Incest, M/M, Post-Marlas, Pre-Canon, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-02 10:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostboywriting/pseuds/lostboywriting
Summary: Auguste is gone. Laurent can't lose his uncle too.





	Family is All We Have

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fairleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/gifts).



> Mind the tags.

"You must not cry," his uncle tells him after the battle is over, when Laurent comes face to face with him for the first time after—after.

Laurent only half hears the words. They are in his uncle's tent in camp, everything draped in red. Until now Laurent has traveled attending Auguste: running errands, looking after horse and tack, polishing armor, wearing a sword but staying far from the front line in battle. Tasks for a second son who has never before ridden to war, who must one day command troops on the field in his brother's service, and who to that end must first understand the daily routines of soldiering, and must never forget who he serves. 

But Auguste is dead. 

Laurent was far from the frontlines, already as safe as it was possible to be, but nonetheless two of Auguste's guards came galloping to his side as fast as they could find him, their faces ashen: _Highness, your brother ordered us to ensure your safety if he—_

"Laurent?"

That was—some time ago. An hour, several hours, a day or a year—he doesn't know. The world has turned to cold, sharp silver, everything still and silent and moving too fast, all at once. He has heard people say, somewhere beyond him, that his father is dead as well.

At some point he was brought to his uncle's tent. He has only fleeting impressions of the journey: mud and blood and ashen faces, and people speaking words that made no sense.

"Look at me, Laurent."

Auguste is dead. Laurent is his father's heir. Father is dead. Laurent is—

Laurent is thirteen, and frozen to stone.

"Look at me, Laurent: you must let no one see you cry, do you understand?" His uncle's hands are on his shoulders; his uncle's voice is quiet and stern and not unkind. There are echoes of Auguste's voice in it—only echoes, but they are there. "You are Crown Prince of Vere now. You will be king one day. Everyone—everyone—will be watching you for weakness now. You must not let it show."

 _Let no one see you cry._ In this moment tears seem such a foreign, faraway thought that he has to puzzle over this idea to make sense of it. Tears. Tears are an expected result of pain, of grief. Is that what he feels? He feels—cold, and still, and as if he will shatter if he tries to be anything else. He hears the shapes of words— _Crown Prince, you will be king_ —but these are only sounds, empty of meaning.

His uncle's hands squeeze tighter, but his voice grows gentler. "Do you understand me, nephew?"

Something in the grip brings him back to himself, a little bit. When Laurent was a small child and wary of something—a blow from the swordmaster at training, or a bees' nest encountered out on a ride, or only a bad dream—Auguste used to put himself at eye level, and reach out to put his hands on Laurent's shoulders. _Be brave, little brother._ And he would squeeze Laurent's shoulders much like Uncle is doing now, and smile, and Laurent would imagine a little of his older brother's strength passing to him through that grip.

He shuts his eyes and looks for that strength, any scrap of it, but finds only a dark hollowness in which his uncle's most recent question echoes: _Do you understand me?_

He does not trust his voice, but he understands. He is not sure he can do what his uncle is asking of him—people have always seen him as weak, compared to his brother, and it's his brother they will be comparing him to now—but he understands what is being asked.

He must try. Auguste would tell him to try. He opens his eyes, and nods.

Uncle smiles encouragingly at him, eyes patient and sad, and Laurent remembers in that moment that he is not the only one here who has lost a brother today. "Good boy," Uncle murmurs, low and approving.

Laurent drops his gaze, because what he wants is to lean into that patience and approval, into that strength, wrap it around himself like a thick blanket that will hide him from sight and hold him together while he breaks. He cannot show weakness. Not to anyone.

He finds his voice long enough to ask: "Does that mean to you too?"

Uncle blinks. "What?"

"Showing weakness," Laurent says.

"Oh." Uncle's hand rises, catches a lock of hair that's fallen in Laurent's face, tucks it gently back behind his ear. The touch feels good, soft, kind, comforting. Laurent wants to tilt his head against it, like a petted cat. He doesn't, because that's probably a sign of weakness too and Auguste would tell him to try.

(But Auguste isn't here. Auguste is—Laurent stifles the incoherent noise that rises up in his throat, shoves it down hard.)

"No," Uncle says. "No, Laurent, of course not. With me—you need never be so careful, with me. We're family, after all." His eyes crease at the corners. "We only have each other now, don't we?"

Laurent nods.

"Brave boy," Uncle murmurs.

Arrangements are made swiftly. Under ordinary circumstances a boy attending to an officer, finding himself suddenly without an officer to attend, would be reassigned and ordered to keep making himself useful. It is not done for a noble boy riding to war for the first time to be given special treatment, after all.

But these circumstances are in no way ordinary: Laurent is crown prince, last of his line, and only thirteen. His uncle has no heirs and likely never will; his distaste for women is no secret. Should anything happen to Laurent now, the succession would fall into dispute between various second cousins, dividing the country.

So the arrangements are made: he will ride at his uncle's side for the remainder of the journey, and sleep in his uncle's tent.

* * *

That night, Laurent sits in the tent on his bedroll and stares at the air.

Uncle watches him for a long time. At last he says, quietly: "How are you, lad?"

Laurent looks up at him and says nothing. There are no words for the emptiness.

A pause. Then Uncle lets out a heavy sigh, comes to sit down on the blankets at Laurent's side, and wraps his arm around Laurent's shoulders, pulling him close. Laurent stiffens for an instant at the touch, and then slowly leans in.

He's rarely been hugged by his uncle before. He's rarely been alone with his uncle, in fact. It's not as if he doesn't know why: Auguste never voiced it aloud, never showed even the faintest rudeness, but he was always there. Always smiling but always watching, never quite placing himself in Uncle's way between them but always in a position where he _could._

But Auguste is gone, and Uncle is here, and he's all Laurent has left. They've both lost their brothers. That has to mean something. Doesn't it? Uncle knows how deep this wound cuts, how fundamentally wrong the world has become in such a short time. He knows; that's why he's here, holding Laurent close.

Laurent shuts his eyes. His eyelids burn, but there are no tears.

"I don't want to be king." The words slip out.

Uncle's hand begins to move, tracing slow, small, gentle circles on the side of Laurent's arm. "You have a long time yet before you'll have to be." 

Uncle's voice, from Laurent's position, is half heard and half felt: a low, reassuringly solid rumble pressed against the side of Laurent's face. It's been a long time since anyone's held Laurent like this, a long time since he's felt someone's voice soothing him as much as heard it, and for a moment he feels as if he's a very small child again, warm and protected and safe. 

Laurent does not answer aloud, but leans in further, taking shelter for the moment under the strength of his uncle's arm.

* * *

The journey home passes in a cold blur. Laurent is glad for the long days of riding, as much as he's glad of anything anymore. No one speaks to him as they ride, and if he thinks at all, he forces his mind to topics that don't hurt. Mathematics, languages, sword forms. Things he can rehearse in his head, that take all of his focus and require no feeling. He doesn't want to feel anything, ever again. Sometimes he doesn't think at all, but only loses himself in the rhythm of hoofbeats, in the motion of the horse beneath him, in the chill of spring air against his face. At the end of the day he can throw himself silently into the work of making camp, and then collapse at the end of that.

He has expected nightmares every night since Auguste died, but exhaustion has so far kept them at bay, with sleep bringing only a colder version of the same numb gray haze that has come to fill his days.

Until the nightmares find him after all.

He comes awake with a shrill yell, one hand pressed over his mouth, the other rising to flail at something—he can't remember what, now, but it was vast and dark and horribly, horribly still. His breath shakes. He can't shut his eyes. If he shuts his eyes it's all empty and he's _alone_ and there's—Auguste is—

"Laurent? Laurent." A flame flickers to life in a lamp, but it casts alien shadows, menacing and cold. Then Uncle is next to him, crouching down. Uncle's hand is on Laurent's back, rubbing in soothing circles, and Laurent is aware he is shaking, shivering, frozen with fear and cold sweat.

"Don't leave." The words feel like they're coming from someone else, out of his control. "Don't leave me alone. Don't leave me alone. _Please._ " 

"It was a dream, Laurent. You had a bad dream." Uncle is calm. "But you're soaked to the skin. Let's get you out of that shirt. Here."

Laurent's teeth chatter. He does not resist as his uncle peels the nightshirt away and brings a blanket to tuck around his shoulders. The dry, slightly rough warmth of the cloth is grounding, a little, and the horror of the dream fades slowly into the background. Laurent swallows thickly as he comes down from it, ashamed of his frantic outburst, but there's no censure in Uncle's touch as it circles slowly lower and lower down his back.

"Shall I call for the physician to make something to help you sleep?" Uncle asks.

Laurent hugs his knees to his chest. "Our medicines are for the wounded, not for bad dreams."

"No one would begrudge you—"

"I don't need to be _drugged._ " It comes out sounding high-voiced and petulant and stubborn; he hears it, and ducks his head to hide his face. "I need to be stronger. I need to be braver. I need to be—" His mind reels with all of the things he needs to be, all of the things he is not. "I need to be able to kill him," he whispers at last. "The Akielan. I'm going to kill him."

His uncle's hand stills its movement. "Laurent—"

"I'm going to," Laurent repeats, before he can be told that he is too weak to even think of it. He knows. He _knows_. "Someday. I—I need to be a better swordsman, I need to learn—"

"You need to _sleep,_ " Uncle says. "There will be time to think of the future later, Laurent."

Laurent looks down at his blankets and shuts his eyes, but they snap open again. He says nothing. Uncle's breath is steady and slow, his sides rising and falling where Laurent leans against him.

"Will you be able to sleep?" Uncle asks.

"I don't want to be drugged," Laurent says tonelessly.

"What do you want?"

Laurent swallows, and hears himself ask: "Hold me a little longer?"

A long pause, and Uncle sighs, pushes himself to his feet, holds his hand out. "Come here, then," he says.

Laurent looks at the big, meaty hand that has been so surprisingly gentle, and up at his Uncle's face. There is only kindness and tired concern there.

(But you know why Auguste never left you alone, a part of Laurent's mind whispers. He hears that thought, looks at it, pushes it resolutely away. Auguste _has_ left him alone, and Uncle is here, and Uncle's done nothing except be kind. Nothing Laurent hasn't wanted.)

"The cot'll be more comfortable than your bedroll—a bit, at least," Uncle says. He smiles slightly and ruffles Laurent's hair. "You're still a slight enough little thing that the two of us will fit on it. How's that?"

Laurent looks between his uncle and the cot for a long moment, and then reaches up and takes the offered hand.

When he's settled on his side on the cot, naked under the blanket, Uncle slides in behind him, and idly strokes his hair. Gradually his hand trails lower: kneading Laurent's shoulders, skimming along his arms, rubbing his back once more, tracing his spine and ribs and the line of his hip. The touch shifts between soothing, steady pressure and something lighter, something that tickles in a way that's not exactly pleasant, but either way, when Laurent at last closes his eyes again, the sensation floods his awareness enough to pull him away from the horror of the dream.

He is not quite asleep yet when the hand on the side of his hip begins to drift forward, drawing a slow line across his abdomen and moving downwards. He can't quite stop his stomach from clenching, or his breath from hitching in his throat. The hand stills immediately, and withdraws a second later. "Did I wake you?" Uncle's voice is heavy and oddly languid.

Laurent stares at the darkness. The touch startled him, but it wasn't… it wasn't _bad._ Exactly. He doesn't want Uncle to stop touching him, not when it's been so soothing. Perhaps if he says nothing, Uncle will think his reaction was to the darkness instead, to a flash of nightmare that just happened to show its face just as Uncle's hand fell where it did.

So he says nothing. But Uncle doesn't return to his petting, doesn't touch him at all.

Perhaps, he thinks, he should have said: _I don't mind._ Perhaps it would even have been true.

But he didn't say anything, and as the moment slips further away he doesn't know how to go back to it, how to ask if they can start again. He tries to distract himself from the pull of the nightmares instead by listening to his uncle's breathing, slow and steady, in and out; he inches surreptitiously backwards until he can feel the warmth of the air against the back of his neck. 

Eventually, he sleeps.

When he wakes early in the morning, Uncle is already up and pulling on his riding clothes. He glances over at Laurent's stirring, and a flash of strangeness—hunger, guilt—crosses his face before it's smoothed away. Laurent expects a smile to replace it, but no smile comes, and when Uncle says, "Good morning," there's a curtness about it. He turns away before Laurent answers, and he's out of the tent a heartbeat later, leaving Laurent staring after him at the swinging tent flap.

Uncle's coolness barely warms as the day goes on, and he seems every time they speak to be keeping a careful distance between them. Laurent sees the distance, but he doesn't know how to close it, and every time he tries he's left with the memory of a hand in the dark going still and pulling away.

* * *

They are back in Arles only a few days later. The funerals are held, and then they are over, as much of a blur as the journey was. Laurent has stood straight-backed and stared blankly into space through hours and days of ceremony and state, his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek just hard enough to hurt without drawing blood, only stopping long enough to speak rote, scripted words as demanded by propriety. The pain of the bite has been sharp enough, present enough, pinpoint enough to take him away from the ache of standing so long. The ache of standing so long has been enough to take him away, in turn, from the constant press of attention, the weight of countless gazes measuring him—measuring him against Auguste, he knows. They look at Laurent and see a small, silent, blank-faced boy, and they are all measuring him against the heroic young warrior who should one day have become their king.

None of it is enough to take him away from the fact that Auguste is dead.

Uncle is busy, constantly busy, from the instant they return to the palace. Laurent understands that; their loss at Marlas has left the weight of the country on his shoulders—his shoulders, in Laurent's place. To Laurent's great relief the strange, cold detachment that his uncle showed him in their last days on the road, at least, has faded; his kindly smiles and warm words have returned. But a smile and a pat on the shoulder are the most he ever has time for before he's off again, heads together in close discussion with one councilman or another.

It has to be enough. Laurent knows that. Their country's on the border of crisis; of course Uncle's barely going to have time for the loneliness of one thirteen-year-old boy. It has to be enough.

It's not enough.

* * *

The nightmares appear to have taken up permanent residence. 

Three weeks after their return to Arles, Laurent hears his own cry cut off as he jolts awake. 

He is damp with sweat, his hair plastered to his neck. He's freezing. His bedroom is silent and empty, and the emptiness is going to swallow him, swallow him like it swallowed Auguste and Father, and without quite realizing it he's out of bed, pacing the length of the floor, scrubbing at his arms to warm them. He's slept in this room his whole life, but it feels alien, everything too big and looming in the corners of his vision, threatening. A nightmare. It was a nightmare. That's all it was, and he knows that, but he can't stop his skin from crawling.

A cup of something hot would put him back to sleep, but he can't have one without summoning a servant, and then they'd see him like this. There's never been a servant that didn't talk, and pretty soon it would be all around the palace that the Crown Prince jumps at shadows in the dark, just because of a few bad dreams.

But he's got to sleep. Every night's like this now, he's barely slept since the funerals, and the books stacked on the shelf by his bed can only take him so far. He picks one up now, opens the cover, but the words swim past his eyes, sticking in his head for only as long as it takes him to read them, and then darting out of his grasp again like small, quick fish.

His head pounds. The walls are pressing in around him. He's going to suffocate in here, in the silence.

But there are guards on the door. There must always be guards, because he's going to be king and he's thirteen and he's not half the man his brother was and none of that is a safe combination. If he goes out the door they'll see him, and he can't have them thinking he's weak, either, can he?

So he goes instead to the window, throws it open and leans out and gasps for air. Summer's on the way, but it's not here yet. There's a deep, damp chill in the air, and the moonlight lands on fog. Even so, it's less stifling than his chamber. He leans into the cold and shuts his eyes and wraps his arms around his torso, and tries to pretend that he's being held by someone else, that his own hands squeezing his sides are a hug from someone who cares.

* * *

The next day flows past him, out of his reach. He can't focus on lessons; he can't focus on anything, and he knows it's only the recency of his losses that saves him from harsh reprimands from his tutors.

That evening, he steels himself and goes to the door of his uncle's private chambers. He shouldn't; Uncle's busy; he knows that. But there's nobody else, and Uncle's lost family too, and in the midst of everything that's happened he must be wanting… companionship, surely.

Auguste, if he were here, would be firmly against this. But Auguste's not here, and Uncle is. 

There's nobody else.

"Laurent." There's mild surprise in Uncle's voice, and weariness. "Come in."

"I can't sleep." It sounds ridiculously childish, and he can't stop it from spilling out the instant he's inside. "My room’s so empty and quiet, and I keep—I keep waking up. I keep thinking about—I can't stop. I thought maybe—" He swallows, but exhaustion and emptiness drive him forward. "I thought maybe if—if I could stay with you for the night…"

He stops, embarrassed. His uncle’s face is kind, but not encouraging. "Laurent," he says heavily. "I know it's been a difficult time for you, and I know—" He hesitates, sighs. "I was… permissive with you, that one night, while we were travelling. But you're almost fourteen now."

Laurent's ears ring with the silent, hollow chill of the room he'll have to go back to. "I'm not yet, though." The words tumble out, desperate and aching. "Not for another—"

"You're lonely," his uncle says. "It's more than understandable. But a boy who's going to be king one day can't race to hide in his guardian's bedchamber because he's had a bad dream." He reaches out and tucks a lock of Laurent's hair behind his ear as he speaks, as if to take some of the sting out of the words. The gesture doesn't help; it makes things worse, because it's not enough. Laurent needs to be held, needs to be pulled close and held tight by someone who doesn't mind if he's not strong for a little while. 

"Please," he hears himself say. "Just once?"

But his uncle doesn't need to answer; Laurent sees the answer in his face, and once more feels the hand pulling away.

"I could," he begins, but stops, dizzy with the enormity of everything that lies at the end of that sentence.

His uncle pauses at whatever he was about to say, eyes him thoughtfully. "You could what?"

He takes a breath. Auguste isn't here. His mouth is dry, and he shakes his head, but he manages to whisper: "I could—I just thought I could—be thirteen a little longer."

Uncle gives him a long, silent, searching look, and Laurent's gaze slides sideways, uncertain. He's got to keep his uncle. He's _got_ to keep his uncle. He's lost everything else. And just because Auguste wouldn't like it doesn't mean it's wrong, does it? Not really? Not if he—if he wants to do it.

He isn't sure he does want to, but there's nobody else who will hold him, nobody else who will let him be a child for a little longer.

Uncle says nothing, and Laurent bites his lip. "And since I'm almost fourteen, maybe you could—" His voice shakes. "Maybe you could show me how to... how to be more grown up."

A mix of anger and something else, the same hunger from that morning in the tent, crosses his uncle's face, but it's quickly wiped away. "Laurent, stop. You're distressed. You don't know what you're asking. Go back to your room; I'll have Paschal bring you something to help you sleep. Perhaps tomorrow we can—"

"I don't want to be drugged," Laurent bursts out. "How's that any better for a future king? I just want—I want—" He shuts his eyes, shakes his head, brow creasing, and his voice drops to a whisper that he barely recognizes as his own. "I don't want to be alone. I can't bear it. Please? You said I didn't have to be strong, with you. And I thought because you were alone too, now, you might want to—" He can't say it. He's not strong enough to say it, but he manages instead: "You said we only had each other, now."

A long silence; he's afraid to open his eyes, afraid to see his uncle's response. 

And then a heavy sigh. "Oh, Laurent. Of course we do." A hand on his shoulder pulls him close. "I shouldn't have been so short with you. Forgive me."

Laurent thinks he might melt from relief. "You've been busy," he mumbles, face pressed against his uncle's chest. "I know. There's a lot to do."

One hand strokes his hair, slowly and gently; the other moves in light circles across his upper back, not quite tickling. "Still, I've been pouring myself into my work to bury my own grief, and neglected my kin—and my future king. I should have been making time for you. We must take care of each other, musn't we?" He steps back, holding Laurent out at arm's length, and scrutinizes his face keenly.

Numbly, Laurent nods.

"And I was wrong," his uncle adds very softly as he continues his study. "You know exactly what you were asking for, don't you?"

"We have to take care of each other." Laurent's voice shakes, and his legs feel like doing the same, but it's really very simple: he's got to keep his uncle. He can't lose him too, and this is how to not lose him. "You don't have anyone else either."

It's simple.

The hand on his shoulder shifts slightly, the thumb moving to trace the ridge of his collarbone, under his severely-laced shirt. Laurent bites his lip, and makes himself hold his uncle's gaze, makes himself take in the desire there, and the need, and the burning hunger, all lurking under the surface of the kindly expression.

"Oh, you fine, brave boy," Uncle murmurs, and pulls him close again. His hands stray lower with their circles this time, down to the small of Laurent's back, down to the slight curves of his hips, and Laurent shuts his eyes and lets them go where they will.

Uncle's holding him tightly. He has what he wanted. If this is what he has to do to get it, it's better than being all alone, surely.

* * *

Laurent's used to servants undressing him with polite professionalism. Uncle makes a game of it, undoing the laces and tickling his newly-exposed skin with their ends, a mischevious glint sparking in his eyes when Laurent yelps and squirms in spite of himself. And Laurent can't help laughing at the glint, so different from the grave weariness that's been ever-present in recent weeks, and his uncle laughs with him and ruffles his hair, and for the first time since Marlas, Laurent feels light and warm, and even the unease twisting in his stomach about what else the evening holds begins to fade. This is his uncle; his uncle wouldn't hurt him. His uncle loves him.

Loves him enough to scoop him up and carry him to the big, soft bed, and lie him down on his stomach on the silken sheets, and bring a pot of sweet lavender-scented oil. "It'll help you relax," he says as he kneads it slowly into Laurent's shoulders and back. "Gods, boy, your muscles are tense enough for a man three times your age. Too much time bent over a desk with a pen in your hand." A teasing pat on his shoulder. "That's what being clever gets you, hm?"

The massage is luxuriant, and as it goes on Laurent does feel himself relaxing, his body growing unusually, pleasantly heavy, his breathing slowing, and for the first time in a long time he lets his eyes drift shut without worrying about what he'll see when they're closed. His uncle's hands move to his ass, and even that doesn't bother him.

Then a finger presses inside him.

He stiffens from head to toe, eyes snapping open. It _hurts,_ but it's the invasion of it, the strangeness of something foreign moving slowly inside him, that make him bite his lip and suck his breath in, at least as much as the pain. But his uncle's other hand moves to stroke his hair, sweet and gentle, and then down to his shoulder to rub at the fresh tension there.

"Shh," Uncle murmurs. "You're all right. You're doing beautifully, boy. Just try to relax." The fingers of one hand return to kneading his back, gliding through the sweet-smelling oil, pulling Laurent's attention away from the invasion happening elsewhere. "Don't worry so about being in control of yourself. You always think too much. However you react, it'll be just as it should be."

They're the words he needs to hear, and if he lets his mind drift, maybe he can pretend that they're about his whole life, instead of only this moment where he's lying on his stomach with his uncle's fingers working their way inexorably into him. One finger and then two, and then he's losing track of exactly what's happening but he thinks there's a third, and they're shifting and curling and _stretching_ and—a whimper and a gasp escape his throat. 

There's a soft, pleased _Hm_ from his uncle in response, and again: "Shh. There. It's all right, Laurent, it's only me."

It's only his uncle. He reminds himself of that, makes a chant of it in his head. It's his uncle, it's his uncle, its his uncle. This is how he keeps his uncle. A little bit of pain's not so bad, in exchange for that, in exchange for not being alone. Is it?

He's not alone. That becomes the new chant, as the fingers begin to work more forcefully. He's not alone—they move—he's not alone—his hips jerk at the unfamiliar sensation—he's not alone. This is better than the nightmares.

And then the fingers are gone, as suddenly as that, and he has just a moment where his breathing eases, and Uncle says: "You're being so brave, Laurent."

And then he's—being filled, and there's a weight pressing on him, and his fingers scrabble against the sheets and his breath comes in gasps and he clings to that word, _brave_ , because it's all he can remember.

* * *

And then it's after.

Laurent lies carefully still, and tries to make sense of what he's feeling. His body's… strange, as if someone took pieces of him out and put them back the wrong way round, leaving soreness and heat and tension in unfamiliar places, and echoes of sensation skittering across his skin. 

Maybe that's all right, he thinks distantly. His mind's been all the wrong way round since Marlas, and now his body matches. Maybe there's something reassuring about that.

He feels… he doesn't know what he feels. Tired; faintly nauseous. But he's brave, and strong, and beautiful. Uncle said so. And he can come to be good at this, surely, if this is what he has to do. He may not feel what his uncle does, but that doesn't mean he can't learn. He's always been a good student, if nothing else.

He rolls over, gingerly, and sees his uncle looking at him with something remote and unreadable in his eyes, and Laurent's stomach drops. This isn't the man who was holding him close and petting him a short time ago; this is the man who told him, just before that, that almost fourteen was too old for that sort of thing.

Laurent opens his mouth, and shuts it again. If this wasn't enough to keep him—if this wasn't enough—then nothing will be, will it?

But then his uncle seems to see into him, see his fears, and his expression softens. It's like the sun coming out. He smiles. "You did well," he says, and reaches out to brush a hand across Laurent's forehead, pushing a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. "You did so well."

He hasn't lost him. The dizziness of that knowledge crashes over him, leaves him giddy and light. 

"You know you mustn't let anyone know about this," his uncle says. 

Laurent swallows. "I know."

"Too many people wouldn't understand. They don't know what it's like, losing their whole families. They don't know what it's like to be so _lonely_ as you and I are."

Laurent finds he suddenly can't speak, but he nods. He shuts his eyes, but not before he feels the tears welling up at the corners, and it hits him that he hasn't cried, hasn't actually cried, since Auguste died.

"Shh." Uncle's voice is warm and soothing as his fingers trail through Laurent's hair. "Let's get you cleaned up, hm?"

The bed shifts as he rises, his absence affecting everything around him. But a moment later he comes back, and wipes a cool, damp cloth across Laurent's forehead. "There," he murmurs, and he wipes Laurent's body down as gently as if he were cleaning up an infant. "Better?" he asks when he's done.

Laurent nods mutely.

And Uncle leans in and plants a kiss on Laurent's forehead. "You're not alone, Laurent. I'll never leave you."

And Laurent nestles close, and lets himself believe it.


End file.
